


Day of the Winter-Vole

by bmouse



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Cross-Generational Friendship, Fix-It, Gen, Groundhog Day, Spoilers for Season 5, tropefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:35:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bmouse/pseuds/bmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The universe apparently wanted Tora Ziyal to live. Elim Garak initially found this somewhat encouraging." As a temporal anomaly mysteriously gives him a string of second chances, can Garak save his young friend from the clutches of entropy? And at what cost?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dear demahogol,   
> At my usual extra-fast rate of one month later, here your prompt. As you may notice, it decided to be slightly longer than a drabble...

The universe apparently wanted Tora Ziyal to live. 

Elim Garak initially found this somewhat encouraging. 

A kind, spirited, if not altogether innocent girl, already saddled with the heavy setback of an unfortunate heritage and a feckless narcissistic maniac of a father, then casually, wastefully shot down decades before her prime. It was like a tragedy written by a less-than-gifted student and just the sort of thing which happened all too often in his unfortunate experience. If the universe had suddenly awakened to conscience and was using that newfound awareness to untangle this sorry snarl of circumstance he could only admire its’ choice of candidate and volunteer himself as a willing instrument. Certainly he’s been used harder for less-noble purposes.

On the other hand, if the universe has suddenly developed an acute sense of outraged fairness why for example did _he_ continue to exist? Garak considered this for a second, the thought darting through his mind brief and bright like a fish through an opaque river and then he helpfully remembered how space-time warp events were prone to capricious collateral damage, along with some of Captain Picard's choice reports about a being called Q and then firmly resolved to keep a lower mental profile just in case the universe changed its’ mind.

The trouble was he still had to find a way to save her. He’d wasted half the first day being over-cautious. Waking up on the Defiant again had been disorienting enough. At first he suspected someone was finally having him shipped off to the untender care of Starfleet Intelligence. When more than 50 memory markers had aligned and he was absolutely convinced the day was in fact repeating itself it had still been very tempting to follow the groove that came before. Then he remembered seeing the body. 

He didn't really mourn properly that first day it happened. He had no energy for it. She would still be dead and on a slab tomorrow and frankly he suspected that her death would shadow him until he dropped his guard and then land like the sort of blow that would render someone unconscious or prove that they had no more capacity for feeling left. It was terrible and his mind made it into an allegory in desperate self-defence - it became the death of her art, the death of the possibility of his and Major Kira's people understanding each other beyond graspers and gatekeepers of resources. If he could only dilute it in overall historical significance he would be spared the details of how she had kicked her feet like a child while coloring his garment sketches and the little gap in her teeth as she smiled.

Today. Today he must succeed. He can feel himself take some psychological damage every time he sees her fall. It’s prohibitively affecting his judgement.

Once, when things had progressed almost smoothly and they were almost to the shuttle bay door he had stepped in front of the shot, felt it sear along and through his ribs. The particular numbness after he had hit the floor indicated it had damaged his spine on the way to killing him. That had not been the act of a sane, rational man. Objectively his life had more to offer Cardassia than a half-trained schoolgirl’s. Or did it? Him spent, her new? Frankly, he would rather not dwell on it.

The day after he woke up with a visceral urge to see the Doctor, to fake a headache or other minor ailment for the sake of exchanging a few words but Julian’s shift mercilessly intersected with the ideal time to access the long-distance transporter controls. 

Pity.

Nothing comes free. Along with this string of chances the universe has Ferengi-like introduced a series of clauses and conditions before he can ‘win’. Some of them are downright bizarre.

Apparently Tora Ziyal is off-limits to the universe, but so is Corat Damar - professional toady and self-hating drunk. 

The first time he shot Damar she had looked horrified. Worse, the day had reset. Of course it would be to everyone’s advantage if they didn’t encounter any angry guards with phasers as they tried to get off the station but he can hardly be blamed for seeing the simplest solution to being threatened. As if the sight of one incompetent soldier standing in the way of his objective was supposed to make _him_ cower. The other way around was surely preferable. Expected even! Honestly, how inebriated was the man on a day-to-day basis to be around Dukat and miss all the pertinent information in the less-than-flattering lectures he undoubtedly gave on Garak’s character. 

But alas, it appears as though Elim Garak professional tailor and self-hating assassin has to find another way.

\- - -

The drama of the station’s minor domestic resistance is unfolding and the general personnel are too busy to pay attention to the proper scans. He knows the exact time she will pass by this hallway, steps too quick with elation that should be fear. It gives him enough time to eel his way through the maintenance access corridors ( with insufficient Dominion lighting one almost forgets how narrow they are! ) to one of his caches to get what he needs and disrupt the surveillance camera that faces the intersection. Now all that’s left is to wait and breathe.

There is an inevitable frisson that runs through him from crest to claws, like clumsily prickling one’s thumb in the same spot over and over, every time he sees her alive. 

The footsteps come, he steps into the light. 

“Garak?! “ her face is radiant “What are you doing here?” 

Is there another person in the quadrant who would _smile_ when they see him emerge from a shadow? Foolish, impossible girl. She’s grown to where she’s almost of a height with him but still she seems so very brave and very small.

“I don’t understand, I thought you left on the ship with the others?” 

“And now I’m here again on an errand of vast importance that I would rather not involve you in. You’re in enough trouble as it is from what I know…”

“How did you..? Oh but of course - you always know everything!” She seems on the verge of dancing, the adrenaline probably. How strange that joy is often the result of breaking the rules for a cause you feel to be larger than your own. So many dangerous behaviors reinforced by one quirk of the brain.

“A little less levity if you please, my dear. You know I think you might be in danger? Please take this” he holds out the little bracelet with it’s bulb of circuitry. “and ease my mind.”

“Father would never hurt me.” she says with certainty, but reaches out a hand to touch the device. “What is it?”

Curiosity is such a useful trait in the young. 

“Of course, of course I did not mean your father, but I understand your actions may put you at cross-purposes with the other new administration here. The Dominion must be treated with utmost caution, I’m afraid they are capable of anything. This is a personal shield, one of those little things a tailor has lying around from time to time, you understand? If there is some... unpleasantness it will buy you time and keep you safe as you get clear. I should hope you’ve had your fill of heroics for the day, yes?”

For a moment she seems torn but then the practical side, the thing that’s kept her alive in the camp, in hiding with her mother, reasserts itself. Like her father she is not the type to pass on an advantage. That’s at least one fine traditional Cardassian trait he’s managed to retain.

“Thank you. How do I...?”

“Here.” He slips it high on her forearm and cinches it tight. His fingers brush and flick on the timed activation switch. It’s working by the time he smoothly steps away. Ziyal frowns but doesn’t disrupt the camouflaging fold he’s created in her sleeve as he tugged it down

“Does it switch off? When can I see you again?” her nose wrinkles, Bajoran ridges suddenly stark and evident “It’s not your only one, is it? I won’t take it if it is.”

“The charge only lasts for a day I’m afraid, and I assure you I have more than one in my possession. But if you find yourself at liberty this evening and in the mood to resume our evening tea - sans tea, alas in these trying times, I could reliably be found in the habitat ring. Section four, storage room nine.”

Storage room nine is a vedek supply closet where they keep incense and the spare chairs and other religious frippery. She’s familiar with it from helping the Major with her volunteer duties and her lips tug up into an involuntary grin, doubtless imagining him crouched among that eclectic collection. The smile does not linger however, and neither can they.

“All-right, tonight. I’ll wait for you.” She holds up her palm. He can’t deny himself and brings his own up to meet it. 

“And I will come find you. Do take care.” 

“I should be telling you that.” she says softly over her shoulder, fixing him with a knowing look “You, or whoever you’re after.”

Soon there is no one in the corridor at all.

\- - -

When the beam hits her, her face is terribly surprised. The tableaux remains the same: looming Damar, still, shocked Dukat, the splay of her dress and hair across the floor. The image on the monitor is like a windowpane into a memory. Has her face always had that hint of betrayal before she fell? 

It wasn’t quite a shield, what he’d given her. Oh it’s function is very similar but some brilliant soul had realized that a shield some small distance _beneath_ the skin would be much more useful to the average field agent, defence and deception all in one. A low-grade arms dealer of Quark’s general acquaintance had required very little leverage to give them up cheaply ( he thought they were defective ) and Garak had stocked up despite the fact that he’d never liked using them. Oh in open combat it was all very well to stand up and shoot the flabbergasted person who was utterly sure they hadn’t missed you, but there was an additional setting: to paralyze, to make the most effective famiscile of a corpse so that minutes or hours later, depending on the timer setting, one could seize maximum advantage and he had never managed to rid his mind of the terrible possibility of oversetting the timer and being dragged out and dumped into a cramped mass grave while fully conscious. 

On screen, things are unfolding as they should and with every minute a sense of certainty settles into his bones. Yes, this is going to work, he just might be allowed to steal one girl’s life from the clutches of entropy as long as everything else remains the same. Apparently the universe wants Dukat to splinter and lose focus. It wants to give Damar another reason to fumble for the bottle in the dark hours of the night and Garak is rather grateful to find himself beneath its’ attention. Still, he can’t help but wonder what great crack is widened with the blow of her loss, and what future events might later descend on them all like a landslide. Nevermind, they will happen regardless. Her death has served its’ purpose to everyone except Ziyal herself and that is in keeping with his policy: never tell the truth when a lie will do.

With a flick of his finger across the console he dials down the volume. When a mission seems just on the verge of success is when it needs the most careful attention and Dukat's melodramatic clutching and crying is setting his teeth on edge. Not to disparage the man’s performance, he’s quite good at the role. ‘Grieving, devoted parent’ sits a little too well on him considering that his rare instances of what the Humans would call ‘fair-weather fatherhood’ have been largely used to fuel his martyr complex.

Garak watches, must regrettably continue to watch Dukat bent and wailing over the monitors and unseen, unobserved by anyone in turn he wastes precious energy curling his lip in disgust. 

Of course some of that feeling should rightly be reserved for himself. A sick kind of jealousy is at work. He can't help thinking: what if some other little wire had misbehaved and electrocuted him in that crawl space in the Dominion prison camp? Would He have done something similar? Would He have wept over the body of his only child? Of course not. 

In his mind he closes a box puts it back in its’ designated compartment. It’s a very small box, fitting punishment for that kind of feeling. On-screen the guards are taking her body away.

The next few minutes are difficult. He has to wait the proper amount of time for them to deposit her in the morgue and leave but his hands are curling in on themselves as he imagines her fixed open eyes as they put her into one of those long narrow drawers, like storage, like the de-materialization tray of the replicator. Completely without his permission his nails have dug into his palms. They are used to each other by now, just him and the dark maintenance corridors of the station - they won’t judge him if he runs.


	2. Chapter 2

Where do you hide a half-Bajoran hybrid? 

He had stolen a shuttle, again. He’s gotten so much faster at doing that. The bay controls practically genuflect to him at this point.

It was even warm planet-side, as if the climate was granting tacit approval of the night’s activities. Her deceptively un-frail body was making his legs burn as he carried it up the steep, densely forested hill that lead to the orphanage but it was a good pain. Ziyal’s living weight was always mysteriously heavier than her dead one (another point regrettably not in his favor in the lunchtime debate over the weight of the soul) and the developing cramp in his calf put him at ease. He didn't even have to lie to the grim-faced Bajoran woman who opened the door.

"Her father is a crazed former Gul guilty of multiple atrocities. Her life was in danger, but no-one knows she's here and he’s not in a position to come looking. Of course I'll cover her boarding fees. I believe your supervisor Matron Omara is an acquaintance of mine and she can vouch for my credit."

She nodded, obviously loath to let go of any extra income. Well, she was welcome to it just as long as she didn’t try taking it all towards general operating costs. This door-woman must be the the one who usually found the abandoned babies, perhaps that explained the look on her face. Was it so shocking, this minimal decency? To see a full-blood carrying a half-blood inside instead of leaving her by the door? Fine, if it put him a little bit further in her good graces. 

But graces were evidently in short supply. The promise of money assured him of a certain politeness but the she couldn’t quite restrain herself. Her eyes cut from Ziyal’s still face to his own, searching. Her posture was brittle, her body language screamed _Aren’t all of you capable of atrocities? And what was your rank during the Occupation? Are you sure she isn't yours?_

He was so tired he answered one of the unspoken questions aloud. _Yes, yes, no (yes)._

“Really madam, mine? A pretty girl like that?" 

Now the issue is getting her to stay. Oh it’s tempting, so tempting to leave her here with deliverance and no explanation but he could not afford to underestimate her effectiveness. If Ziyal felt herself wrongfully separated from her old life, her ambitions, from Major Kira in particular she could probably be off planet within a day.

No, he has to stay and say a few things. Offer up the first link, and she will do the rest. The best chains are always self-forged.

By the time she wakes up it’s almost as if nothing had happened. He had diligently healed the surface damage on the way down. A stolen tricorder and a long-standing friendship with a certain medical professional have ensured that he’s competent even with the odd Federation model. Still, the phaser beam had made a hole in her dress. She traces its’ charred edge with a curious finger, inspects the black sootmark with wide, fixed eyes and then matter-of-factly wipes it off on her hem. Garak tries not to wince. The whole garment is unsalvageable anyway.

He’ll make her a new dress and send it... No, he corrects himself regretfully - he won’t. Sentimentality has ruined many a State secret. The Major or Odo would notice if he was making a Cardassian-style dress that no one would buy. _And if we both live to see the end of the war it may be some time before I willingly touch a hand-stitcher again._ He stands very still as she looks around the room, perhaps hoping to escape notice for another moment, and prepares to give an abridged explanation the contents of which he hasn’t quite determined. After all, every conversation should be tailor-made to the individual.

Her voice when it comes is hoarse but steady.

“Is it useful to you somehow, that my Father goes mad?” 

_Ah._ There it is, the blow. It’s still much lighter than her on the slab. 

“I see, that Human saying is right: no good deed goes unpunished. I rather thought that unsightly affection you carried for me was a little more durable.” Honestly the girl’s question is legitimate, given his usual relationship to her family, and normally he’d admire her for pressing him now when he’s tired. 

Unfortunately, he gets vicious when when he’s tired. 

“Your Father will be disappointed to learn that he is not at the center of my awareness, nor is he so high in my consideration. You’ve had a trying day but please, do think: there are easier ways to reach him. He has passed in and out of my domain for many years and hasn’t suffered a scratch but now he stands at the attention of many dangerous forces and the blows aimed at him have a history of landing among those standing at his side.” There it was: truth, of a sort and here was a vein of genuine emotion and he took the risk and coaxed it closer to the surface. 

“Worse, he’s made no secret of his preference for you! He hung the target on your chest himself! It was only a matter of time before you were used as a hostage: your suffering as leverage, or your death as punishment. I have seen this kind of scenario play out so many times before: someone’s spouse or lover or child. If you can trust nothing else, trust my experience.”

“Given all that I thought it was prudent to separate you. Temporarily, of course. I was going to discuss it when we met but then Damar forced my hand in the matter and rather proved my point.” 

\- - -

_Could I kill him?_

Ziyal wonders, her still-numb feet twitching against the edge of the bed, trying to kick. She kicks her feet when she’s happy and when she’s nervous. He used to tease her that at least it wasn’t an obvious emotional tell.

Someone had nearly killed her today and the more she thought about it the more angry she became. Wasn’t it fair? Shouldn’t she get her turn? _Beware, Damar._ And Damar had been off-handedly friendly back on the freighter, more so than the other soldiers. Garak had been right in a way. She _is_ a terrible judge of character.

Major Kira, tense and tight-voiced, had brought up her choice of friend on several occasions which Ziyal then handily disarmed by pointing out her choice of the singular pronoun. Curiously enough absolutely no friendly harmless Bajoran youths her age were queueing for the honor of easing the Prefect’s daughter’s loneliness. Oh not quite, Jake was nice enough when he remembered her but when they talked she would sometimes envy his unmarked wood-colored skin and think ‘precious, protected only child, nothing terrible will ever happen to you.’

And now her only friend had done this, and here she was wondering if the way he leaned off his back leg meant that he had hurt it, that there was some advantage there. Any way she considered it the answer was no. Her limbs felt numb and uncooperative after that damned paralyzer bracelet and though she was sure only dignity kept Garak from swaying on his feet this would never be a physical fight she could win.

“Where am I?” 

If you can’t act, stall. Gather information. She hadn’t needed him to teach her that. She knew the tricks of survival, of scrabbling for the last bit of ration-bar in the dark. It was the light she wanted, Cardassia’s light and civilization and a hundred exquisite tile-lined paths that she had only half a ticket to see but still nursed a desperate hope that she would be allowed to walk down them hand in hand with her Father. Flimsy, childish dreams. Cardassia would break before it opened to her and Garak talked about the light so convincingly because he was so deficient in it.

“The Prophet's Hand. Rakantha province, on Bajor.” 

“What is it, a monastery?” 

“Yes.” he looked uncomfortable. “and a... shelter, of sorts.” 

Nevermind if she could kill him, she would try. Men had a weak spot at the back of the head where the top-level scales beneath the crest hardened and separated with age. There was carved prayer-stick on the nightstand by bed. If she broke it one end would be sharp. Her head swam, her hands were heavier than mountains.

“An orphanage?!” she spat. “Do you have any idea what my mother gave up, to keep me out of places like this?! To have me grow up without thinking I belonged here. With the rest of the unwanted trash? I was a _slave_ and I had more dignity then!” 

The slightly apologetic air Garak had around him vanished completely. He blinked, just once and his expression was the one she recognized on a professor who was tired of humoring her. 

“Again a temporary arrangement, I assure you. And not a moment too soon. Listen to yourself! Is the Great Gul’s daughter too proud to sully herself with the company of blameless children? Would it shock you to hear that if not for a twist of fate my place would be among them?”

 _Oh._ She had always wondered about his circumstances. How a once-powerful full-blooded Cardassian, however fallen, could manage empathy for her own castelessness. 

“ _You_ stay here then. You might become a better man, - the kind that doesn’t move his friends like kotra-pieces without their consent!” 

Even as the words crossed her lips some part of her that was always calculating these things was shocked at what she was saying. They had always been so respectful to each other. So much of their friendship was built on mutual civility, on hand-in-hand gracefully side-stepping the unpleasant things in their lives. _And I am reasonably sure people who have been comparably rude to him have died._

“Well.” he said in his maddeningly light tone, flashing one of those self-mocking smiles “Well you may be right, but things stand as they are. You can have art and your studies and even Major Kira again but first you have to live through the war.”

“Father thinks I’m dead, I can’t leave him like that. He loves me!” She was on trial, stating her last defense.  
“He wept over my body!” And hadn’t checked her pulse. 

Garak shook his head.

“That’s easy isn’t it, getting sentimental about the dead. Even a Vorta could do it! Did he respect your right to live? The way you wanted? Did he see you as something more than an extension of his generosity, who owed him everything right down to their breath?” 

He took a step towards her and she flinched back. He pretended not to notice and began to pace back and forth at the far edge of the little room. 

“Let’s say you go to him now, oh he’ll be overjoyed, you’ll be the center of his world for several weeks at least!” 

With the help of just a few muscles his face turned cruel. “Well, barring any time-sensitive political intrigues. And what about the next time you step out of line? The next time you are yourself in a way he doesn’t approve of? Do you really think it will always be Damar who makes the shot?”

Something changed, his pacing became more agitated, the perfect control he usually had over his body was slipping. His hands flexed and clenched and for the first time she noticed dried scabs on the undersides of his palms. Even the mask of cruelty crumbled, and what was underneath was fearful and desperate as if he was watching someone falling off a great height and arrived too late to catch their sleeve. 

“When it’s your father’s hand around the trigger, will you bow your head and walk into it?!”

 _But I did, I’ve done it already. Father has always been willing to kill me, we just let each other forget as time went on. I thought that’s what civilized people did._ Poor Garak, his good advice for her was always too late. This outburst wasn’t even entirely for her. She had worn him down to some true thing at last and with a flicker of old curiosity she wanted to know who he was really addressing, across the cycles of time.

“Please, just for a few months. If you still want to see him after that, I won’t…” His voice was ragged now. Damn the man to cold Hebetian hells. If he couldn’t command he would wheedle. 

“Fine! Don’t you dare promise me anything anymore! I quite dislike it when you lie to me.” 

Immediately, her body was filled with a terrible relief. _It’s nothing, I’m just weak and upset right now. It’s only that I am afraid… that Father will be disappointed in me. I will wait here for a few days, until the guards get used to me, until I see their pattern and then I will leave._

She had been so stupid, spending all that time with Major Kira, living with her and she hadn’t learned the most valuable thing the woman had to teach. She thought she could be part of the resistance and not pay anything. Now it’s almost like they did shoot her. Day-dreaming artist Ziyal humming over her paints and giddy over galeries, she will have to be on hold for a while. Maybe some part of her had always known it would end, that things were coming to a head. Had what she’d done been her way of helping it along? Life on the station had been so exhausting sometimes. Reassuring everyone, pretending to be optimistic about her own future.

Silence was thick in the room. He was still breathing heavily, casting little glances at the walls. She tried to think of something sensible to say.

“Do you have any advice? For a half-viper girl in this backwards province? You’ve been living among hostile Bajorans longer than I have, haven’t you.”

“I doubt the staff here will be quite so... adamant, they can hardly afford it. You also possess several advantages that I do not. Innocence, for example. I suggest you use them. Besides, I did have my moments of respite. I suspect they will be fewer now, without you.” 

He sighed. She almost felt sorry for him.

“It shouldn’t be too long. The war will resolve itself soon, one way or another.” The way he said it froze her. People would talk that way when they got to the point where going to their shift in the mine or walking into the camp’s electrical grates were beginning to seem like two interchangeable choices. 

“Garak,” Funny, a minute ago she was ready to try sawing through his sturdy neck and now he was like her last living relative. “please. This... this is unfinished between us. Please do your best to survive.”

“My dear, I tend to.” He seemed completely aware of what she’d been thinking, tracing the arc of her change-of-heart and a little restored good humor twinkled in his eyes. She must have made a face.

“Oh, not reassuring enough?” he teased. From wounded animal to genial uncle in the space of four blinks. “Well,‘ I’ll be back’ how’s that? It worked reasonably well the last time.”

“And when you come back I will decide if...if..” she trailed off.

“You are free to decide anything you like. Provided you live long enough to do so. I stand, as ever, at your mercy.” 

He bowed his head to her, smiling faintly. Exhaustion sharpened the creases in his face. A few strands of hair had gone out of place and clung to his collar. 

“Be well, Tora Ziyal.”

He was a practical man. On some level he was already memorizing her face. Keeping her pressed in this moment, in this shabby but sunlit room.

She memorized him in return and didn’t say anything. Her hand itched to lift up but she closed it into a fist and pressed it firmly against her dirty skirt. When she looked up he was standing just in front of her. Tired as he was she hadn’t heard him move. 

He laid an unnaturally steady hand on the top of her head, pressed down very lightly, turned neatly on his heel and left.

 _Imprisoned again_ , Ziyal thought as the door swung closed. She fell back on the bed and idly flexed her fingers against the blanket. There was a horrible comfort in that, in not having to think too much about tomorrow. In living a stretch of time like you were living the same day, over and over again. 

_What awful, bland walls. I wonder if they will let me repaint them?_


	3. Chapter 3

"He's back miss Tora, he's back! "

They call her 'miss Tora' in the village now, and it gives her some satisfaction. She realized that she'd never stayed long enough in one place, on Cardassia, the station, or her stint at university to win so decisive a victory. It was not the half-hearted tolerance of her classmates who claimed "You know I think of you as full-Bajoran " and "I can barely see your scales anymore" ( _Ah, but did you also fortuitously forget the fact that I'm violet-gray?_ says a voice in her head that sounds like Garak but she suspects is just herself ) but closer to a measure of true respect. She had resolved to mine some kind of dignity out of this place for herself and the other children, to chip and chip and take from the town until the orphans were normalized, so that even the full-Cardassian girls could play by the village fountain without people throwing their water back.

Of course there were days when she would sell it all for shuttle controls under her fingers, never mind how long it’s been since her stint at the simulator and how she was most likely to crash into a stray satellite. No wonder she stayed. How shameful, to be a Cardassian woman and struggle with physics calculations. 

Wherever she goes next she’ll have to start the battle over again. Then again some part of her enjoys charming people, thrives on opposition. Her mother had been like that. She tries not to think too much about who else she gets it from.

“Mister Garak’s come back from the war to marry you!”

Chesa's Kardasi had progressed to the point where she had read the entire contents of the chipped military pad that some bored and enterprising soldier had filled with contraband literature. Ziyal didn't regret teaching her per se but the girl was book-mad so now she saw plots and potential enjoinings everywhere. Since Garak was one of the few friendly Cardassians the children saw he was naturally guaranteed a starring role in both. The man himself is trailing smoothly at the girl’s heels, eyes glittering with amusement at having found himself such a small and enthusiastic herald.

He looks sharp. Sharper. The coat with barely any hint of color except at the seams, the way he stalks across the grass are all at odds with the lonely shopkeeper she had come to know as closely as he had allowed. Hardship has pared flesh away from his frame and his face and it’s only due to some indefinable Garak-esque quality that he still looks kind and harmless when he’s smiling.

The children don’t seem to notice. They run towards him, chattering and asking questions, bragging about the books they’ve read. One of the boys is showing him the tiny blue stitches of his neatly repaired sleeve. 

“Allright now, give an old man a little breathing space please!” 

A circle forms around him, with Ziyal on the edge of it like a wandering star.

“I have come because I have a very important question for all of you. It concerns something that happened quite a while ago, so search your memories diligently! Now, do you remember when you asked me if I had come to take you all back to Cardassia?”

When he turns towards her at last his eyes hold a terrible hope.

“Do any of you still wish to go?”

-fin-


End file.
